


Take Me Down

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Double Penetration, F/M, Gags, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Mirrors, Multi, Psionic Bondage, Psionic Sex, Psionics, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Weapons, Weapons Kink, basically vriska is into people that can kick her ass, but so is eridan so there you go, there is some hinted aravris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: It all started when...Pitch can be a very dangerous game to play, especially when neither of you is willing to back down, and you've both forgotten to call halt.Dangerous. Very dangerous, in ways you can't quite imagine.Of course—that's what makes it so damn fun.





	Take Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [auxanges](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/gifts).



> "my crutch is what erivris could have been......there is a lot here but i would love to see how far they would go to push each other to their limits, Because Of Who They Are As People. painplay is a yes. weapons are a yes. gills are a very yes. as eminem once said lose urself in the music the moment you want it u better never let it g"
> 
> "ddddddddddanger sex (blows multiple airhorns)  
> show me desperate angery blackrom boys. canon compliance, lands, rebellionstuck are all fair game. gags are encouraged. rough sex encouraged. gills are again encouraged. psionics encouraged. i am your hype man for all eternity with purple and yellow pompoms, crying"
> 
> anyway: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InAaCKqUmjE

Eridan looks best a little fucked up, and even better when you're the one doing it. He's never really known when to quit, never been great at sorting out when he's ahead and when he's dug his own grave so deep you don't even have to bury him in it, and really, it's one of his most  _enjoyable_  qualities.

You've found several others that you would prefer never to speak of.

Except, sometimes. Maybe. It really depends on who to and who with.

 

Sollux Captor is not usually high on that list. In this case, you're willing to make a  _very_  rare exception.

 

More on that later.

 

* * *

 

_It all started when..._

 

This latest game of FLARP had to be your best yet. Once you scratched past the surface of adulthood the games you could participate in, the competitors and competition you could find—it was something of a wonder, really. From what you'd seen so far, you were a big fan, and Ampora wasn't hiding his appreciation either. The challenge a half sweep before this had covered two continents and four ports of call, taking about a perigee (between breaks, for duties and rest, of course), and this latest one was shaping up to be even better.

Ampora had scored several points by beating you to that last win, but you, you always had an ace up your sleeve, and two in your back pockets.

Besides. The  _real_  magic came when you both went for story points, and this latest move of his was shaping things up for a good one.

 

Betrayal, blackrom, battles on the high seas. When Eridan's feet—excuse you, the Orphaner Archange's feet—land on the hard wood of your deck, you'd be ready to sneer if you weren't just a touch impressed. Maryam's upped her game, and probably her fees, for him to get a coat patterned like feathery demon wings.

You sneer anyway.

The Orphaner smirks.

"A pleasure to see you, Marquise. Perhaps you'd like to take the chance to explain your latest behavior to a poor, confused soul, wonderin' at what you've been doin'?"

"Orphaner! I wish I could say the same, but really, there's only ONE thing I have to say to you, of all people—get. Off. My. Ship."

His last molt was a growth spurt that grabbed him by the horns and  _yanked_ , and the depth his voice has dropped to sends a thrill down your spine when he laughs: the two of you are finally coming into your own. "Oh, trust me. I'd love to be anywhere but this heap a scrap, but unfortunately, needs must."

Okay, so now you might have to cull him for insults, but you can do that later. "Needs must what, Ampora?"

He jerks his chin towards your cabin. "Perhaps this can be discussed a little more...privately."

 

* * *

 

Your decision to humor him ends, as it often does, with him sprawled out over your desk. He's easy, in several certain ways that you very much enjoy, and you are often inclined to indulge him, if the mood strikes you to be kind. In this case, you're riding a razor's edge between indulging him, and indulging yourself, and the cuffs around his wrists, stretching him out across your workspace, are a testament to that.

 

The flat of your blade traces down his skin, and his stomach shudders and jumps. In his eyes there's a depth of hatred, a kind of sweet longing, that makes you wonder if he isn't more curious than he says, if he doesn't want to  _see_  you cut him open and bleed his violet for all it's worth.

You oblige.

 

The lines of your symbol are tricky, devilishly hard to get right, but you can cut a rough spade into his chest and ignore the way he gasps and moans, like your blade's better than sex. Idiot.

(it is far harder to ignore the way your bulge presses against your sheath, the way your nook is aching. far harder indeed.)

When you finish with that, you're nowhere near done, but judging by the way he slumps back against your desk, panting, he thinks you are.

Good. You can use that.

 

Your standing in the FLARP community makes certain commodities easier to come by. The fine wine you pour into two glasses is one such thing, and Eridan's appreciative look (quickly hidden away, of course, he wouldn't  _dream_  of letting you see that he'd like something you'd done) is well worth playing this card so soon. He sits up, as you set the glass gracefully into his hand, and wrap yours around it. He blinks up at you, startled, his fins tilting in confusion. You can practically read the question in his expression— _aren't you going to let go?_ —and you ignore it, carefully guiding the glass to his lips.

His flush spreads out across his fins, but he obeys, drinking deep.

The realization doesn't kick in until he's halfway through the glass.

 

Eridan shoves your hand away, pretty, wine-stained lips painted in a snarl as glass shatters on the floor. You laugh, and shove him back down against the desk once more. This time, he doesn't fight his way back up, sprawled out and panting as hard as he was when you marked him with the blade of your knife.

No restraints are called for, not when you've struck such a decisive blow, but considering what you've got in mind for him, you're going to go that route anyway. Shackles, with the slightest hint of padding, sit nicely around his wrists and ankles, stretching him out over your workspace like he's the latest paperwork you've got. Not half bad.

"Bitch," he mutters, baring his fangs at you.

"Not my fault you didn't check the labels," you retort, flipping the knife in your hand, watching the way his eyes track it and his hips jump, just the slightest bit. "Or maybe you  _did,_ hmmmm? Is this what you've secretly wanted all along?"

He snarls at you, and you throw the knife—he jerks his head out of the way, and it just  _barely_  grazes his fin. From the way he screams, you'd  _think_  it had been sliced clean off. "Fuck— _fuck—_ let me go, you psychotic bitch—"

"Nah. Let's see how much you can actually take." You retrieve your knife, and slice neatly through his pants, sneering at the violet spreading across his underwear. He  _is_  desperate, even if he's loathe to admit it, and you're incredibly amused at this latest turn of events. "Aw. Good thing I have a couple more knives, hm?" Eridan swallows hard, and the flicker of fear in his eyes lights yours up in pure pleasure. You are going to  _destroy_  him.

 

* * *

 

After that first reaction, he takes what you dish out  _infuriatingly_  well. You leave vicious little criss-crosses of cuts over his inner thighs, and he doesn't even seem to mind the sting of his own sweat. You trace the flat of your blade over his fins, and he looks  _bored_. It's nearly got you growling, frustrated to the point of doing something irrevocably stupid, as you tap the handle of your blade against his thigh—

—hm. No. Couldn't be.

 

Pretending not to notice his reactions, you move your tapping a scant inch higher, just a touch closer to his nook. There. Right there. His breathing hitched, and he glanced down, quickly enough that you wouldn't have noticed if you weren't paying absolutely rapt attention.  _Got him._

You slide the blade back into its sheath and move like you're about to put it away. His breathing seems to ease up, which makes the way he chokes as you whirl around and  _press_  the handle of your sheathed blade up against his nook all the more delicious. "Don't—Serket, fuckin' don't, you crazy bitch—"

For once, you don't lash out at the insult. Instead, you  _shove_ the handle inside him, and laugh as he screams.

 

Eridan visibly tightens up around the knife, wanting more or trying to push it out. You're not sure, and you don't care, not when you've got him exactly where  you want him. The sheath is thick leather, something you're very grateful for as you work the handle deeper in and further out of him, watching as he whimpers, twists against the restraints. He's increasingly desperate; you're increasingly amused.

When his secondary breathing system kicks in, your eyes go wide. You'd expected some spectacular results, sure, but getting his gills involved? Oh, you are going to  _enjoy_  this.

As thoroughly wrecked as he is, Eridan doesn't even  _notice_  you leaning over him, or that the decidedly pitch kisses you're placing along his skin are wandering up towards his gills.

He  _does_  notice when you run your tongue along them, though. You get to watch him freeze up, his eyes going wide, and it's a very amusing sight indeed. "Serket—that ain't a good idea, don't—Vris, I'm serious, this ain't a game, alright," he says, babbling, almost on the verge of pleading. You've got mercy enough not to let him go that far, but not enough to let up, and you scrape your fangs over the outside of one gill, watching the way he keens.

 

 _Now_  he's getting into it even more, rutting down against your dagger, as you suck his gills open, tongue at the insides and watch the way it makes him shiver. He's not so bad when you've fucked him enough to shut him up, and you're pretty sure this is counting as one of those times. "Enjoying this, Ampora?" Your voice is singsong, teasing, insulting, and it sends a delicious little thrill through you when he's too wrecked to fight his own reactions, nodding at your words. " _Good_  boy."

You'd learned, many sweeps ago, that once Eridan Ampora is in such a state of ruin, he's very susceptible to both humiliation and praise, and you're going to make free use of it. "Vris," he mumbles, and you pet over his hair, as you slowly slide the knife out of him. He even whimpers at the loss.

"Shh, shh. Don't worry." Your own bulge has become increasingly insistent, as you destroyed him all over your table (you'll need to get someone to sand off that violet stain, or figure out how to turn it into an aesthetic point), and you settle between his thighs, cerulean curling through the violet slurry he's left all over himself. "Clean this up for me, won't you?"

You don't wait for a response before shoving the hilt into his mouth, and he doesn't bother to fight it, looking up at you from behind a haze. Triumphant victory runs along your backbone, as you slam into his waiting nook.

The movement jolts him, and he chokes around your knife—you hiss in annoyance, and tug the handle out of his mouth, tossing it away and tugging another one, unsheathed, from your sylladex. This new one goes against his throat, as you fuck deeper into him, your bulge curling and lashing with each movement.

He spills, hard, and you keep going, harder—hard enough that he doesn't even complain when the knife calls violet forth from the soft skin of his throat.

"Desperate, Orphaner?" You murmur it silky smooth against his fin, the edges of your power stroking over his mind. Even now, he's resisting you, and it's one of the rare things about him that make you  _enjoy_  this little feud you have going. He's worth your time, in some indescribable ways, and you enjoy breaking him down and making him burn.

 

Your little rendezvous ends fairly well: Eridan does his best not to lip off, barely carrying the shreds of his dignity as he leaves. You've advanced the plot nicely, and he took the opportunity of the pitch afterglow to talk things over about a new clue he'd found, a new pathway the two of you could pursue, together or competitively. You're excited again; you want to continue out onto a road that carves your names into history where you belong.

You  _know_  that Eridan feels the same.

 

* * *

 

You quickly learn that Eridan isn't feeling quite the same.

 

The next time you arrive on his ship, he has things ready for you. He has  _everything_  ready for you. You'd known he was one for pair pitchplay turnabout, for getting a proper amount of revenge, but  _damn_. This is a much further leap than you'd ever expected even Eridan freakin' Ampora to go.

He's got you chained to the ceiling. He puts a spider gag in your mouth, a touch that you greatly appreciate, even if you're not planning to show it.

And then he pulls out a gun.

 

The feeling that runs down your spine tells you that you are an unbelievable degree of fucked. That maybe,  _just maybe_ , you've pushed Eridan Ampora a little bit  _too_  far this time, and that you're probably going to regret having done so very soon, if you're not regretting it already.

You're not, actually. But you would be regretting it a little bit, if you weren't so ridiculously turned on.

 

When he traces it over skin he'd bared with his claws— _going a little feral, are we, Ampora?_ —you jump, at the chill, at the implied threat. He's not the calmest troll you've ever met, not on days like this, and you'd give him credit for how well he contains himself if it weren't for the way he behaves when he's  _not_  contained. As the barrel of the gun circles your breast, a spiral growing ever tighter, you begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, taunting him is  _something_  of a bad idea.

It doesn't stop you, of course.

"I didn't know you'd read the imperial manuals on gunplay," you begin, and remember, abruptly, that he'd gagged you. Your words come out as little more than confused soup, and he smirks at you. Gods above and deeps below, he  _can't_  have already gotten you so distracted that you're forgetting the setup. Jackass.

"Miss being able to talk, do you? Don't worry, darlin', I'll be givin' you plenty to say soon enough." He pauses, amends his thought. "Scream, more like. Trust me, it'll be fun."

Trust him? You're going to fucking  _murder_  him.

He sweeps the gun down across your stomach, and you don't bother to hide the moan, as your mind turns furiously. There has to be a way out of this, some opportunity to turn it around on him. In fact—

Something cold, the wrong kind of cold, not violet cold nor what you imagine tyrian to feel like, presses against your nook. When you look down, he's got the barrel pressed up there, between your thighs, and you're already starting to coat it in cerulean slick.

You look up at him and shake your head, panic in your eyes, and his smirk spreads out, lazy and predatorial. "Don't worry, darlin'. You won't get hurt so long as you don't struggle too much."

 _Now_  your mind is working overtime to try and remember if you'd seen or heard him load the damn thing. You can't, almost as much as you can't stop yourself from moaning again as he twists the gun against you, catches at your clit, bumps the handle up against the underside of your bulge in a way that has you threatening to scream, spill, or...some humiliating mixture of the two. You hate him. You despise him. You loathe him so  _utterly_  that your heart wants to burst with the pitch.

Before you can do anything stupid—like get all sappy, blackways—he flips the gun again.

 

With the handle pressed up against the entrance to your nook, you're hit with a sudden clarity: You know  _exactly_  what he wants to do to it, and the mere thought makes your eyes go wide, as his bore into the  _very_  depths of your soul.

Okay. Okay.

You'd be lying, if you said you hadn't considered it. He was an Ampora, Demoness' sake, of  _course_  you'd considered it! Guns and Amporas went hand in hand! But your hazy fantasies had been low on details and high on pleasure, and had generally—somehow—involved the Crosshairs. Not some little handgun, pressed up against you like his only chance at fair turnabout and justice came from the end of a gun.

 

You shake your head, and try to twist away.

Very deliberately, you do  _not_  give any of your prearranged signals.

 

His grin widens, and he  _shoves_  the handle into you.

 

Your hands twist into the chains binding you as you throw your head back and  _scream_ , just as he'd predicted. It burns, an aching stretch in all the best senses of the word, and you nearly sob, as he presses it into the walls of your nook, pushing one way then the next, to take you deeper and grinding the outline of it into you. There's no chance for you to escape. No  _hope_  that you'll make it out sane.

Against you, he purrs, and shifts around to your back, crushing you against his chest with one arm wrapped around your waist and the other hand holding the gun. "Look," he murmurs, quiet command against your ear.

You obey, and nearly break again at the sight of yourself in the mirror.

There's a gun buried between your thighs, so deep that you're half wondering if he's going to try and push the trigger guard, the rest of the barrel, all of it up into you as well. It's already slick with cerulean—like the rest of his hand, like the entirety of your thighs—so he might as well, really. Your hair's come down, a wild tumble, and the attention you hadn't noticed him giving your neck, shoulders, throat, everywhere—it's resulted in a mess of bruises and bite marks that leave nothing about your time to the imagination.

You shudder, and he shoves the gun deeper. You scream, and he wraps a hand around your bulge and  _strokes_.

It takes eight more seconds for you to finish.

You know. You counted.

 

He slides the gun out of you, almost gently, and tosses it into his sylladex once more. Before you can raise any formal protests, he catches you under the knees, spreads your thighs and lifts you into the air. You're helpless, like this, and the extra slack on the chains makes you pitch further forward almost immediately. Eridan just laughs, and when you try to snarl at him in return, his cold bulge shoves up into you.

After the gun, it's so soft, so soothing, that you nearly cry in relief. Then he begins to move, scraping over raw places, overstimulated nerves, and you cry out in earnest, feeling broken down, reclaimed and conquered—you'll gut him for this, you'll gut him and make him pay in blood and bone.

But whatever threats you try to make fall apart in the empty air, and he fucks deeper into you, until you're so full of him you can see the outline of his shape. You curse him out, and it comes out as mumbles and moans. He fucks you harder, and those noises turn into pleas and screams.

 

Finally,  _finally_ , he spills violet, half into you, half all across your skin. You've already finished twice—three times? you're not sure—by the time he finally comes, and you're shuddering, shaking as he slowly lowers you down and sets you free. He even catches you when you fall, like the gentleman he likes to pretend to be.

None of it matters; he's already sealed his fate. Vengeance, in your hand, is deadly.

 

* * *

 

You plan. Far in advance, you know you've always been good at getting irons in the fire ahead of time, but you start planning even further ahead than you ever have.

It takes heavy bribery to get the information you'll need, and all the trickery and persuasion skill you know—except of that certain sort—to get the  _people_  you'll need. This is, quite probably, the hardest setup you've ever had to handle in your life. You're reasonably sure it's the hardest setup you'll  _ever_  have to handle in your life.

And really, that makes it  _all_  the more fun.

 

Which brings you back to Sollux Captor.

 

The unusual circumstances surrounding this entire maneuver have put him much higher on the list of trolls you would speak to about Eridan's more  _enjoyable_  qualities. For all of his platonic dislike of you, he's not going to pass up a chance to take a free shot at Eridan. If you weren't so aware of your kismesis' status as something of an attention whore (and his tendency towards polyquads and vacillation), you might be a  _little_ worried about giving a pitch powerhouse like Captor a free shot at your hatemate.

As it is, he's going to be a  _very_  useful component of your most excellent revenge.

"You do know I'm using you, right?" It's a question you can't help but ask, as the two of you finish reviewing the setup, a day before Eridan's scheduled to arrive.

Captor grins. "I'd be offended if you weren't, seeing as I'm planning to use you, too."

Not bad. You can work with this.

 

Eridan doesn't seem to expect anything. He doesn't even  _suspect_  anything, which is a feat far beyond you thought actually achievable: apparently, your suspicious bastard of a pitch thinks that the quid pro quo has been  _completely_  satisfied, and that considerations of revenge have been set aside until the time of the next offense.

Oh, it's almost too easy.

 

The two of you team up for this next mission, and while he's the usual amount of wary, he's not wondering if you're going to backstab or betray him—and, to a degree, you wouldn't. Pitch is built on a certain kind of trust, after all. No one puts a knife to his throat but you.

Unless, of course, you decide to let them.

This next mission takes you on land, to an unassuming tower. Eridan's halfway expecting you to have talked Feferi into a round, judging by the comments he makes and the outrageous hints he drops. It's not that out of your range: the two of you have had her over for a number games before, enough that you'd set her up with her own backstory, lore, and character enrolled in the league, and she's always done  _decently_  well, even if she's not as strict about keeping her character. Of course, her presence  _does_  tend to be a distraction for Eridan, something that usually gets on your nerves—in this case, you'll allow it. It's going to make everything  _so_  much easier.

 

"All right," he says, when you reach the base of the tower. "Straightforward rescue mission? Or are we fightin' against—"

"The intel I have says it's a mage," you cut in, and he blinks, his fins doing a startled little ripple. He knows as well as you do how rare mages are in the game. For one to have gone undiscovered this long...either they were very powerful, or very new on the scene, and you  _knew_ he hadn't gotten any intel to imply the second sort.

 

Actually, you'd been fairly startled to find that Captor already had a FLARPing character enrolled—until he'd mentioned Aradia and Tavros, at least—and one look at his stats gave you a  _very_  clear explanation for why he found the entire thing "boring".

Well. You were going to give him a game that was  _much_  less boring to play, and a _prime_  opportunity to put those excellent stats to improper use.

 

"A mage, Marquise? Really? Been a while since we've faced one of those." His fins flick, as he looks up towards the top of the tower. You can see the mental calculations he's doing, as he tries to sort out if this is a cakewalk of a n00b player that you've both discovered, or some hidden powerhouse who's laid out a trap a whole game long.

"Really," you say, as you do your best not to snicker, as he comes to the inevitable conclusion: whatever it actually is, it doesn't matter. He wants to win this tower, and he will stop at  _nothing_  to get what he wants.

His jaw firms up, and he nods at the tower. "Right then. You're the one with the intel. Care to share, or did you already formulate a game plan for this?"

"Like I said! There's a mage up there. I'm not sure if we need to worry about any innocent PCs that might have been caught up in their machinations." You half shrug, like you're embarrassed that you, of all people, couldn't ferret out more. "You're the strategist, Orphaner."

These are the magic words that seal your victory: Eridan would not turn down what he sees as his rightful place. He gives you a sharp nod, and tips his fins in a signal you know well—onwards and upwards. You nod in reply, and he sets off, slipping into the tower ahead of you.

It's almost touching that he trusts you to guard his back (and you ignore the brief flicker of guilt, of knowing that he won't trust you with it for a while more after this).

 

The tower itself is fairly quiet, pulsing to some kind of rhythm. You'll give Captor this, he's almost as much for showmanship as you and Ampora are. Bright blue and soft red beckon the two of you forward, further on and deeper in: It's a trap woven as well as any you could imagine, and you pride yourself on having had a hand in it, even as you  _swear_  not to let Eridan know how little you had to do with this particular aesthetic design.

Judging by his expression, after all, he's very impressed. You're maybe a little regretting giving Captor a chance to one-up you, to flirt with Eridan in such a deliberately pitch way.

Ah well. Lose the battle, win the war.

"Vris," Eridan murmurs, as you near the top floor. Things have slowly begun to shift shape, into hexagons and honeycombs. You're a little worried that Captor's gotten too obvious, that he's going to give himself away.

"Yeah?" Your voice is strained: it's not entirely faked.

"I don't think we're dealin' with a newbie, here."

 _No shit, Troll Sherlock_. "How do you want to handle this?"

His fins flick in uncertainty that he's trying to hide for you, and he jerks his chin towards the window. "Think there's a balcony we could make use of?"

You blink. This is even more perfect than you could have assumed. "I'll go. I think I can reach the upper one from here, if you want to take the door."

"Good call, you're lighter."

You roll your eyes at him, and he sticks his tongue out at you. "Stay safe, Orphaner."

"You as well, Marquise," he says, and you duck out before the sincerity in his voice chokes off your veins.

 

* * *

 

When you finish your climb up—made easier by the fact that you helped Captor plan the layout of this entire tower—Eridan's bound up in psionic light and baring his fangs at his...captor.

You flatten out against the wall of the balcony, and wait for your moment.

 

"I don't know what your game here is, Captor—" You hear him begin, before he's cut off.

"Mage," Sollux says, exactly as the two of you had planned it. Between you, you know Eridan well enough to have mapped out almost all of this dialogue. It was disconcerting, at best (embarrassing, at worst), to learn that Sollux knew your kismesis nearly as well as you. You'd been dealing with it. Mostly.

(the idea of such a proud seadweller subject to a psionic like that had helped. you would never claim to be unpredictable in your interests.)

"If you would like to get familiar, though I have not given you leave, Archmage Almeisan will do." You try not to laugh: Captor had been adamant about putting the boot in verbally, even in early discussions. "Of course, if you're looking for some intelligent alternative to the curses you've been spouting off, I'm sure a little bit of focus and clear thinking will suffice."

Eridan snarls, you can hear it from here, feel the way the subsonic harmonics of it roll through your bones. A shiver follows after: you are ever drawn to things that could kill you so quickly as thought.

(you're wondering if that's why you've allowed someone like sollux captor into this little game of yours.)

 

For long moments, silence reigns incompletely—the whisper of fabric on fabric, the faintest sound of cold skin on warm, paints enough of a picture for you—then you hear Captor, quietly, strained and hoarse: "Not bad."

You burn, from the inside out, with the desire to be in there—but no, no, too soon and you'll ruin things, you'll break the game, shatter all your best chances at winning. You need, as much as it burns you, to let him have this. If you want to win here, if you want to remind Eridan Ampora exactly who he's dealing with, you need to make this work for you.

 

You're starting to wonder if Alternia is specifically designed to cultivate this kind of fuckshit in her Descendants.

 

When you hear the sound of ripping cloth, your nearly snap the weapon in your hands. Captor has yet to give the signal, and you're starting to think that a little bit of murder might be in order. "How  _dare_  you—" Oh, someone's going to be in a shit mood.

"I dare as much as I please, given that you're the one on his knees after a failed attempt on my tower. I'm surprised you didn't realize how quickly your luck would run out."

Thank  _fuck_. Your boot heels click against the balcony as you march towards the door, and the moonlight hits in just the right way to silhouette your form. Ampora's a smart boy. The moment Captor dropped that line, he knew, and when he sees you, he bares his fangs in pure, wild, pitch hatred.

Game, set, match.

 

* * *

 

You'd taken all of ten seconds to admire Captor's work. Eight, for aesthetic and dramatic effect, two more because  _damn_. It was possible that you had  _maybe_  forgotten exactly how  _versatile_  psionic power could be.

Eridan Ampora is bound in leather and silk, as promised. The sparks of electricity, shaped into something like shackles and chains, are completely unexpected.

As you cross the room over to him, you do your best not to let him see exactly how interested you are. He'd only gloat, the bastard. As it is, he's going to be insufferable—you can see the rip in his coat, the bruising and cuts on his mouth from Captor, the way he's panting, how disheveled his hair is—Ampora is ever a pain when he remembers how  _pretty_  he is, how much people seem to want him.

"Well now," you drawl, looking him over again. "Not bad, Archmage Almeisan. Remind me, what payment did we agree upon again?"

Captor knows the script cold. You know the script by heart.

It's how you know that he's going to take a  _drastic_  turn.

 

"A piece of your kismesis' pretty ass," he returns, and Eridan's eyes go wide. Okay. You can work with that. "He didn't seem to object before you got here, so I'm  _guessing_  you haven't beaten all the pride out of him yet."

"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Captor did a damn good job of setup, you'll give him that. From here, you can lean back against the table and tip Eridan's chin up with the toe of your boot, and when you do, sparkling light wraps around his lightning horns like another set of shackles. Chains arc down through the air, binding his horns to the blue-red colored collar around his neck, keeping his chin raised. He tries for a growl, and sparks scatter across his skin. It ends as a moan, and you laugh. "See what I mean?"

"I'm beginning to, yes." His voice is nearly dry enough to match the scorching sands of your least favorite campaign location, and you frown slightly—it gets you an eyeroll, and he flicks his fingers. Cloth sails out of a drawer, and binds itself around Eridan's eyes. "Did you want him gagged, or am I allowed to exercise some creative freedom?"

"I'd say you already  _have_."

Down on the floor, Eridan recovers from his shock and awe (but probably not his lust. you can tell.) to snarl at you. "I should've guessed that you'd take up with  _his_  type, Marquise."

"Oh, darling," you nearly purr, hoisting yourself up onto the table. "You should have learned not to make any kinds of guesses about me."

A shudder rolls through him, as much at your words as whatever Captor is doing to him, and you tip your head at your borrowed psionic, curious. "He's incredibly sensitive to electricity," he murmurs, completely focused concentrate as his hands twitch minutely, each movement raising a corresponding reaction. "Want to see him pail himself still dressed?"

 _Yes_. "Not yet. Do you have anywhere to secure rope to the ceiling—" He's giving you a look like you're an idiot. You bare your fangs at him and lie. "For the  _aesthetic_."

His expression does not change, but the appearance of the psionics on Eridan do. Instead of shackles, it's all rope, and you frown slightly. "No, put it back."

"Picky bitch," he mutters under his breath, and you decide, in all your generosity, to let him have this one. "How high?"

"Bulge-sucking height. You'll want your pants open for this one, Mage." Now you get to see Captor's eyes go wide, at the thought, and you grin. "He's  _quite_  good at it."

"Oh  _fuck_  you—"

Before he can continue his invective, that same power and light fills his mouth, stretching his jaws out, and he manages another little whimper. It has your own bulge threatening to push its way out of your sheath, and you have to brace yourself against the table before you can circle around to the back of him. "Get the rest of his clothes off," you order, and you get to watch Eridan freeze up, hanging in the air.

Captor laughs. "I'm not taking orders from you unless I like them."

You raise an eyebrow, and he grins. Ah. You know this script too. "How do you like that one, then?"

 

This time, when his fingers snap, Eridan's clothes go completely to shreds. You're going to have to replace those, but fuck, it's  _very_  worth it, to watch his bulge tumble out of him almost immediately, to see the way his nook has been slowly staining his thighs a brilliant violet and keeps at it in the open air.

Eridan himself arches against his bonds and  _moans_  like he was made for it, and you growl in response. Captor's got the front of his outfit open, and you drag your claw down Eridan's sides, careful around his gills, and sink them into his hips. Now he screams—or tries to. Golden yellow smears across his skin, as Sollux Captor shoves two bulges—holy  _shit_ —right down his throat.

From the way Eridan immediately goes limp between the two of you, you know  _damn_  well that he's going to take everything the two of you give him and come back begging for more. It kills the absolute last of your self-control, and you shove your own pants down, yanking him back against you as your bulge uncurls, twists with his.

Watching him rut against your body and the psionics around him is amusing, to be sure, but you're already wanting so much more. Instead of untangling from his bulge, you let yours push into him, taking it along with you. If he can take both of Captor's from the front, well—you already know he can handle the two of you in the back.

He doesn't seem to remember this, judging by the way the stretch makes him twist and thrash between the two of you, and Captor cups his fins over with hands spilling over with sparks. There's another noise, one you recognize well, and you feel a rush of violet, spilling over and around you, filling him up enough that you can  _see_  the curve of him. "Fucking  _hell_ , Captor," you mutter, and he grins at you across Eridan's body.

"Told you," he says, and you smirk at how hoarse he sounds. Even fucked raw and pailing hard, Eridan Ampora knows how to take a bulge.

Which reminds you.

 

Your hips jerk forward, and he spasms around you. If it weren't for the psionics, you're not sure he'd be able to hold himself up. Part of you takes the  _slightest_  fragment of pity on him, and when his bulge tries to tug out of his much-abused nook, you shift enough to let it—and immediately slam further in, keeping him stuffed full of his own slurry.

When you next look up, between hard thrusts, your bulge lashing inside Eridan, coiling until he looks likely to protest, you see Sollux Captor curled over your kismesis, hands wrapped around Eridan's horns and pressing that pretty little mouth tight to his skin. He's buried sheath deep down Eridan's throat, and you're nearly sure that Eridan is  _purring_. Degenerate. "Doing okay there, Mage?"

"Absolutely fucking fine," he nearly gasps out. "Fuck.  _Fuck._ "

"Mmmhm. That sounds about right." You pause, looking Eridan over. "Spark him again."

When he reaches for those fins, his hands full of glittering light, you shake your head. "His body. Make it  _hurt_."

 

Something gleams in Sollux's eyes, and he obeys this order without hesitation as well—it makes Eridan yelp, keen, tighten up around you, his hands curling and flexing in the ties of silk, leather, and psi that you've had laid on him. This  _has_  to be the best idea you've ever had.

Sollux swears again, and your attention snaps back to him. "Need to finish?" He doesn't meet your eyes as he nods. "If you can go again after, do it down his throat. And his face, he looks good coated in slurry."

"What if I can't go again after?" He seems determined to be difficult, no matter what.

"Then come over here and fill his nook up."

From the way his eyebrows jump again, you're pretty sure he didn't expect that. "He could take three?"

"Mhm."

_"Fuck."_

Eight seconds, tops, and Sollux spills golden down Eridan's throat, pulling out before he's fully done to cover violet-flushed skin. Eridan shakes, against you, between you, and you claw down his back hard enough to make him scream.

Sollux slumps back against the table, panting as he watches the two of you together. "Gimme a sec," he mutters, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. "Upright?"

"Obviously."

He sneers, but doesn't do more than that, even as Eridan's jerked upwards, right back into place again. It leaves golden slurry running down his skin in a way that complements the picture more than you'd like, less than you'd hate—about as much as you'd  _hate_. Hm.

From this angle, you can see Eridan's face in the mirrors Captor set up, and he looks absolutely  _wrecked_. It's not bad, to be sure, but you'd really rather have him all the way at ruined. Lucky for you, it's not a very far jump.

He goes a deep, deep violet, flushed fin to fin, at the sight of himself like this. You fuck deeper into him, highly amused, keeping an arm around his waist even if you don't need to. Your other hand reaches for his throat, until Captor interrupts you with a quiet cough. "What."

"Hi. Psionics. Remember?"

Rolling your eyes, you let your hands drop, and the band of sparkling light on Eridan's throat seems to lie a little heavier—judging by the way he starts panting, the way his hands scrabble for purchase that Captor will not allow, he's getting desperate again, and he's getting there much more quickly than you'd thought. "Need to finish again?" You nod at Sollux, and the psionic lets Eridan speak again.

"Pleasepleaseplease—"

His words cut off sharply, into another cry, as you shift deeper. "I'm not feeling all that merciful. Archmage?"

"He's not finishing unless I'm sheath deep inside him," Sollux says, and the predatory gleam in his eyes raises him in your estimation a little bit more.

"You might want to hurry, then. I'm not sure he can hold out all that much longer."

Sollux laughs, and shoves off the table. "Easy fix." A snap of his fingers has more sparkling light twisting around the base of Eridan's bulge, and you nearly moan at the sight of it—and  _do_  moan at the way he immediately tightens up.

"Fuck, oh fuck, deeps, please, oh gods—" The two of you are absolutely destroying him, and it's one of the most glorious things you've ever seen.

Another shower of sparks has Eridan's thighs spreading out wider, lifted up higher, and Sollux Captor's twin bulges curl against Eridan's thoroughly used nook. You yourself can't help but shudder at the near-burn of his heat against your own cold—you can't  _imagine_  how it must feel for Eridan.

 

Well.

He  _does_  seem determined to show you.

 

Eridan keens and cries out, his body tensing up, tightening up—then Sollux murmurs something almost soothing, and he settles down a little bit more. Around your bulge, you feel...oh,  _fuck_. The prickle of psionics spreads Eridan out around you, pushes the slurry further into him and  _holds_  it there, and Eridan keens, writhes as much as his restrictions will allow. If you'd thought that heat was overwhelming before, it's nothing compared to both of those bulges curling and coiling up around yours, the three of them twining together inside your kismesis. It's the kind of intimacy that sets your teeth on edge, from a troll you barely know, and you're about to snap at him when—

when—

 

The psionics on Eridan's nook vanish, and he  _immediately_  tightens down around all three bulges inside of him with a noise that shudders along your bones. (it is abysmally easy to forget, even easier to remember, how most seadwellers run one step or two away from feral.) Instead of snarling Sollux off of your pitchmate, you sink your claws into Eridan's hips and bring him down  _hard_. Both you and Sollux are buried sheath deep, and from the way Eridan's keening, he knows it, and  _still_  wants more.

"Desperate," you snarl out, and he makes a pleading noise in response.

"Fucking hell," Sollux says, his voice still rough, still quiet. "I can see why you keep him around."

"If you gag him for the first half, he's nearly tolerable," you agree, and let your bulge lash deeper against him. Sollux does  _something_ , an odd little ripple that has Eridan keening, and your eyes go wide. "Do you still—"

"Yep."

"So you're not going to let him—"

"Dunno. It depends." His response comes breathless, choppy, between rolls of his hips. "Do you think we should?"

You're not sure about Sollux, but frankly, you'd like to see how much you can wring out of Eridan Ampora while you've got him in such a state. " _Fuck_  yes."

The psionics on his bulge spread out, instead of dispersing, and change, slightly—you can't quite tell what Sollux is doing, but you make an appreciative noise all the same. Eridan's hands jerk higher up, and he's writhing between the two of you, his movements increasingly desperate. "Come on, ED," you hear Sollux whisper, and that odd feeling races down your spine again. "So fucking close, come  _on."_

This time, he spills even harder than the first, and the way he tightens up around you has you biting down a scream, as your hips stutter up into him, adding cerulean blue to the violet mix. Sollux follows after, throwing golden in, and you and Eridan both scream at the feeling of pure heat, delicious almost to the point of pain, painful to the point of pleasure.

You pull out slowly, leaving Sollux to support Eridan, and he takes his time about it, untangling his bulges from each other and Eridan's nook. The first rush of slurry pours out of Eridan, paints his thighs obscenely marbled, and he sobs, completely wrecked.

 

Still, you're not much better. You drop into a chair, and look him over, as Sollux slowly lowers him to the ground, right back into the puddle he'd made. "Is it bad if I want to push him a little further," you say, not quite a question, still a little breathless.

"Nah," he says, flopping to the floor in a tangle of points and sharp angles. "Fucking hell, I can't believe he kept that much slurry inside him."

"He's taken more," you say, spilling Eridan's secrets without the slightest qualm.

From the way Captor's eyes go wide, eyebrows making a game attempt to join his hairline, you're pretty sure he hadn't expected that at all. " _Damn,_ " he murmurs, awe in his voice as he strokes over the curve of Eridan's stomach. "Well. Fuck. Wanna go for a hat trick?"

"As long as I don't have to do anything," you retort, shifting in your chair to watch.

"Nah." Sparks fill the air, landing all across Eridan's skin like a glittering cloak. You're absolutely fascinated, and you make a game attempt to keep it off your face. Captor winks at you. "Check it."

Eridan begins to tremble, at the stimulation, his mouth open and no sound coming out—for a moment, you think he's been gagged—then Captor presses down gently on his stomach and he  _screams_.

Slurry spills out of him in a rush, helped along by a  _third_  orgasm, one that has him jerking and twisting on the floor, painting himself with hues much lower than his own. He's sobbing again, claws raising sparks on stone, as Captor helps him along and further past. Somehow, you find your own hand tangled with your bulge, and you wonder when the hell it came spilling out of your sheath.

 

* * *

 

You're very,  _very_  grateful, that you and Eridan are meticulous planners, that you go above and beyond, and that you both have a tendency towards extravagance and excessiveness. Captor had questioned the need for a concupiscent platform in the tower you'd helped design. You'd decided that even if this little bout never made it quite that far, it was a necessity in keeping with his characterization and general aesthetics.

Even so, you hadn't considered interior plumbing.  _I guess I'll have to give him points for this_ , you muse, letting the water run down your skin as you stand in the luxurious shower. A few minutes more, then you turn the lukewarm water off, and saunter out to see them.

 

Eridan's already asleep, sprawled across the bed from where the two of you dumped him after the post-third round cleanup, but Sollux is awake. He raises an eyebrow at you, as you stand there, wrapped in a towel and nothing else. "Should I make myself scarce?"

You snort, drop the towel, and head over to the bed, getting in on Eridan's other side. "Not if you don't want to miss him waking up all needy."

From the way he looks at you, you know that he didn't expect that kind of backhanded invitation, and honestly, you can't blame him. He's Megido's best friend, and you and Megido have ever been a certain kind of contentious that's been threatening pitch since gods know when. Still. When he glances down at Eridan, and looks up at you again, that same feeling runs down your spine. "Are you sure?"

Ah. Fuck. Okay. You hadn't expected him to be so deep in spades with your pitchmate.

But. Honestly.

Now that you're thinking about it?

 _Hm_.

"Yeah," you say, a little surprised at yourself, and then—not very surprised at all. "Two against one is much more amusing."

He snorts, and flops down on the bed, tugging another blanket over himself. Eridan immediately rolls over and loops an arm around him. You'd be offended if it weren't for the fact that you're not a cuddler, and that Eridan's already got a leg hooked around yours. Psh. Seadwellers. "I should probably let Ampora know you said that. Maybe give him AA's number, even."

It's an offer, a repayment of a favor, and you flush blue, glad he's carefully, decidedly, not looking at you. "Depends," you manage. "How attached to living are you, hmmmm?"

Sollux laughs, and flashes a smirk at you, as Eridan drags him deeper under the covers. "I could take you," he says, confident, assured, and utterly wrong.

 

You don't even mind.

**Author's Note:**

> This is much longer than planned, and also much more emotional.


End file.
